God of Milfs: The Gods Request Me To Make a Milf Harem - Chapter 804

Chapter 804: We Love You No Matter What

Kafka stood there, awkward and stiff, his hand brushing against his legs as though it could steady the unease rattling inside him. His eyes flicked to Seraphina, this goddess who had just defused the storm that nearly ended with him murdering his own mother, as he didn’t know what to say. A lump sat heavy in his throat.

Her eyes didn’t help. Those piercing blue irises didn’t meet his with warmth or even recognition, they regarded everything with detached disdain.

The sofa, the curtains, the table with its scratches and uneven legs, her gaze swept over them like a queen forced to sit among peasants. It was unnerving. She looked less like a guest and more like an auditor, quietly finding the flaws in his very existence.

Kafka tried to smile, tried to break the ice. A joke sat at the tip of his tongue. Anything to make this unbearable silence less suffocating. He opened his mouth, but before a single sound came—

Seraphina’s expression snapped.

Her skin turned ashen pale. Her eyes widened unnaturally, and her lips parted with a low sound. And before Kafka could even process it, she lurched forward, one hand gripping her stomach, the other bracing against the coffee table. And then—

She vomited.

Not food. Not liquids…But Blood.

A violent gush of crimson splattered the wooden floor, hot and steaming. Then another surge followed, and another, until it seemed like her very veins were emptying out onto the rug.

The sound was horrifying, wet, choking, endless. The sight was worse: a goddess, regal and untouchable just moments ago, bent low like a broken mortal, blood pooling beneath her like a crimson mirror.

“Seraphina!” Kafka shouted, his chest tightening with panic. He dashed forward, his mind screaming in chaos.

‘What the hell?! She’s dying, she’s actually dying right here in front of me!’

His hands hovered helplessly above her shoulders. “What, what do I do? Do you need a hospital? Should I call someone? Do you, do you even go to hospitals?! I don’t even know if a hospital can treat a goddess!”

But before he could spiral further, Seraphina stopped. The tide of blood ebbed. She sat back, eerily composed despite the lake of scarlet beneath her, and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

Her face was pale, but her voice, flat, cold, unshaken, cut through his panic like steel.

“No.” She said simply. “It’s all right.”

“All right?!” Kafka nearly screamed. He gestured at the floor, at her stained lips. “You just vomited enough blood to fill a bathtub, and you’re telling me it’s all right?! What does ‘all right’ even mean in this context?!”

Her gaze slid toward him, still dull, still void of warmth.

“I knew something like this would happen. Lady Vanitas’s gaze alone is enough to wound me. To be left only with this…” She motioned vaguely at the sea of blood around her. “…is merciful.”

Kafka’s jaw slackened. “Merciful?! You call this merciful?!”

He then quickly fumbled in his pocket, pulling out a handkerchief, thrusting it toward her. She accepted it with an almost casual flick of her hand, wiping her lips as if this were routine.

“You don’t understand.” She said, her voice steady as stone. “Had Lady Vanitas willed it, I would not be here at all. Not a corpse. Not ashes. Nothing. Erased utterly, as though I never existed.”

Kafka froze, the words sinking into him like lead.

“…But you’re a god too. How is that even possible? Isn’t there some balance between you? You’re supposed to be on the same level, right?”

She gave a faint, humorless chuckle, the sound brittle.

“Balance? No. It is like comparing earth to sky. I stand on high cliffs, yes…but she is the heavens themselves. And since the…change, that distance has grown wider still.”

Her cryptic tone made Kafka’s brows furrow. “Change? What change?”

But before she answered, her body swayed slightly, her hand pressing to her temple. Instinctively, Kafka darted toward the kitchen, filled a glass with water, and hurried back. He set it in her hand, speaking quickly,

“Here. Drink this. You lost too much fluid. Just, please, drink.”

Seraphina raised the glass, turning it between her fingers like it was some relic from another world. Her eyes flicked to him. “No Heavenly Nectar?”

Kafka blinked. “…Heavenly what?”

“Heavenly Nectar.” She clarified, her tone matter-of-fact. “The extract of the Solar-Earth Flower, harvested once every two chaos cycles. A liquid that restores vitality and grants clarity. It is what I would normally drink after such an encounter.”

Kafka stared blankly. “…Yeah, no. Sorry. I’m just a mortal guy from the mortal world. Closest thing I’ve got is…orange juice.”

“Orange…juice?”

“Yeah.” He sighed. “Citrus. Sweet. Tart. Comes in a carton. Do you…want to try it?”

Her silence stretched. Then, she gave the faintest nod.

A few seconds later, Kafka returned with a fresh glass of orange juice. He handed it to her gently, almost like he was afraid she might shatter it. She studied the amber liquid with curiosity before lifting it to her lips.

The first sip was slow. Her expression didn’t change at first, but then her eyes flickered, subtle surprise flashing in their depths. She tilted the glass, took another sip, then another, tasting it carefully.

“…It is good.” She admitted, voice softening a fraction. “Not as divine as nectar. But good. Truly good. The mortal world…it surprises me.”

Kafka couldn’t help but smile faintly at that, watching this cold, regal goddess examining orange juice like it was some sacred relic. For a fleeting moment, she almost looked…human.

But then his mind snapped back to reality.

His heart clenched, panic rising again as he turned toward Abigaille and Olivia. They were still standing by the far wall, motionless. Their eyes were glassy, unfocused, staring into nothing.

Kafka’s breath caught. “…Mom?”

No answer. No blink. No flinch.

He rushed toward them, waving his hands in front of their faces, lightly shaking their shoulders. Nothing. Their bodies were warm, alive, but their minds were far away, trapped in some unreachable haze.

And that terrified him more than anything.

But just then Seraphina’s calm voice slipped through the panic.

“It’s alright, Kafka…There’s no need to worry.”

He snapped his head toward her, anger and confusion lacing his voice.

“Alright? How can you say that? Look at them! They don’t even see me! I’m right here in front of them, shaking them, calling them, and nothing! They’re trapped in…in something, some kind of dream. How can that be alright?”

Seraphina, unfazed, stepped closer, her blue eyes steady as frost. “Even so, it is alright. They are not in danger. They are simply sleeping.”

“Sleeping?” He echoed, almost incredulous, his hand still clutching Olivia’s shoulder.

“Yes.” Seraphina said, her tone even, explanatory. “Lady Vanitas did not want them to witness what was unfolding here. So she forced them into this state—a waking sleep. Their bodies remain as they were, but their minds drift elsewhere.”

“To them, it will feel as though no time has passed at all. They will not remember this conflict. They will not remember her threats.”

Kafka’s brows furrowed, his lips trembling as he turned back to them. “So…you’re telling me…they really are fine? Nothing happened to them?”

Seraphina nodded, a simple tilt of her chin. “Yes. They are untouched.”

A shuddered breath escaped him, relief loosening the knot in his chest. But before he could fully steady himself, Seraphina added softly,

“Not only are they unharmed, they also know nothing of the truths your mother tried to hurl at them. The accusations, the memories, the things that frightened you so deeply, they do not carry them.”

His head whipped toward her, eyes wide.

“What? What do you mean? She, she planted it in them! I saw it, saw the disgust in their eyes, the way they looked at me like I was filth. They pulled away from me. They recoiled. Don’t tell me that was nothing!”

Seraphina’s expression softened, though her voice stayed cool. “Better that I show you, than argue.”

With a wave of her hand, light shimmered faintly around Abigaille and Olivia. Their eyes blinked, life flooding back into them like dawn breaking over a dark horizon.

Kafka’s heart stopped. He was terrified of what would come next, terrified of the disgust, the hatred, the rejection. He wanted to hide, to cover his face, to run before their eyes met his.

But when Abigaille’s gaze found him, her voice was not filled with scorn. It was warm, motherly, the same tone that had always wrapped around his heart.

“Kafi…Kafi, sweetheart, what’s wrong? Why do you look so scared? Did something happen to frighten you?”

He froze. Confusion rooted him to the spot.

Olivia stirred too, blinking at the scene around her, then frowning at the sight of Seraphina.

“What…What exactly happened here? Where’s Miss Vanitas? And…who are you? When did you enter our home?”

But before Kafka could stammer out a reply, Abigaille let out a sudden scream, pointing at the pool of blood that stained the floor.

“Blood! So much blood, where did it come from?” She spun back to Kafi, worry in her eyes. “Is it you, honey? Are you hurt? Did you get injured?”

Her hands were on him immediately, checking his arms, his chest, his face with frantic tenderness.

When she found no wounds, she let out a long breath of relief. “Thank God…it’s not you. I thought you were bleeding out, my poor boy…”

Kafka stood there, shaking, staring at her. At Olivia’s puzzled concern. At their familiar, loving eyes.

He whispered, broken and unsure. “You’re…You’re not afraid of me? You don’t hate me?”

Olivia blinked, tilting her head. “What? Why would we be afraid of you, Kafi?”

Abigaille’s brow furrowed, her voice firm but gentle.

“Kafi, darling, why in the world would you think that? We could never hate you. Never. You are our boy. Nothing in this world could change that.”

The words pierced him like arrows of light through the fog.

Just moments ago, he had believed he’d lost everything, that the love that had sustained him was gone forever. Yet here it was, unbroken, unchanged, flowing into him as if it had never wavered.

A sob tore from his chest. He lunged forward, throwing his arms around both of them, clutching them tightly. His tears spilled freely as he pressed his face against them.

They gasped, startled, but immediately softened into his embrace.

“Kafi…what’s wrong?” Olivia whispered. “Tell us. Whatever it is, we’ll fix it together.”

“Yes, darling.” Abigaille soothed, rubbing his back. “If something frightened you, you can tell us. We’ll fix it together. Always.”

But he only held them tighter, shaking as if he might never let go, overwhelmed with relief and joy.

At last, his world was still here. And it had never left…

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